Dogs

The baby gurgled. The dog looked positively ecstatic.

Anyone who knows me is aware of my love of dogs and of my wont to greet, pet, and scratch nearly every dog I pass on the street. Our neighborhood is ideal for dog addicts like me, making it nearly impossible to walk a few short blocks without stopping at least once. I’m amazed we ever reach the restaurant or theater we’re walking to.

Even as I’m putting the finishing touches on this piece, a dog in the shop where I’m working wriggles free of his leash and trots over to say hello—clearly a kindred spirit.

While my wife loathes most smaller canines, I’m not so picky. I find even the smallest rat dog worthy of a scratch behind the ear. I’ve gotten to know some dogs in our neighborhood and a few London coffee shops so well that they tug on their leashes at the sight of me, tails wagging, eager for attention.

There’s a bit of a ritual to the first hello, and my encounter in the Drop In just now is illustrative of a typical encounter.

“May I say hello?” I ask.

“He’s only one, so he might jump,” the owner cautions. “It’s his first time in here.”

Theo, a well-behaved yet playful golden, is trying to be good despite a few remaining bouts of ‘puppy brain.’ He leans in for his scratch, playfully nuzzling before gently closing his mouth on my hand when I rub his nose, ready for some rougher play. Sadly, it’s neither the time nor the place. I settle him down with a light rub to his ears, and he turns to her owners, who are preparing to take him for a walk.

I thank them and say goodbye to my new pal with a final pat.

Theo eyes the exit, eager for his walk.

The encounter with Theo reminded me of the importance of asking permission before saying hello. Owners know their animals best, and not everyone shares my enthusiasm for random dog encounters. I unfailingly defer to them, but on balance, many owners indulge me for a minute, maybe two—especially if I assure them I speak dog and take full responsibility for the inevitable licking, muddy paw prints, or jumping.

Because I’m tall, I do my best to crouch down—though that seems more difficult every year. “Old, but not obsolete.” (Thanks, Arnold.) I let the dog sniff the back of my hand. If he shies away, it’s best to let it go. Ending an encounter early, before a dog reacts negatively, keeps the door open for the future. If he does display a fear response, even once, there’s a high likelihood we’ll never become buddies.

Most dogs are thrilled for the attention, leaning into a gentle rub on the hindquarters, noses up, tongues lapping at the air. Ears can be another good spot—they’ll let you know what they like and when they’ve had enough. For Molly, a golden Lab who frequents the Richmond Caffè Nero, it’s never. One pat, and it’s friends for life.

Once, my wife and I passed a woman walking her dog while pushing a pram with a newborn. When I asked if I could say hi, the new mother beamed—clearly delighted someone wanted to admire her baby. Her expression shifted to confusion, then amusement, when I bent down to scratch her dog behind the ear.

The baby gurgled.
The dog looked positively ecstatic.

Despite being a knucklehead, he was the world’s greatest dog.

Since the loss of our black Lab a few years ago, and with a travel schedule that would make keeping a dog unfair, I’m forced to live vicariously through other dog owners—often to the dismay of my spouse.

I’m not a scientist, but my experience provides me with plenty of confirmation bias. After all, science tells us that petting a dog releases oxytocin—the so-called “love hormone” that strengthens bonds and fosters happiness. I can’t resist the urge. Call me an addict. A moment of connection with a dog is a tiny, tail-wagging reminder that joy is simple, loyalty is pure, and sometimes, the best friends are the ones who don’t say a word.

So, I roam the streets in the early evening to get my dog fix, living out Jordan Peterson’s rule in reverse—he suggests stopping to pet cats on the street, but I keep my eye out for the dogs. Perhaps there’s a lesson in that: happiness often comes in small moments—a wagging tail, the weight of a furry head against your knee, or a greeting from a four-legged stranger who, for a brief, tail-thumping instant, makes you feel like the best part of his day.